


death is like sex

by zxrysky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Multiple Mentions of Sex, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8485087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxrysky/pseuds/zxrysky
Summary: The whole thing feels like a B rated spy movie. Blaise pisses someone off, Draco's in a shoot-out, and Pansy's off living the life in Hawaii because she's a genius who claimed her holiday leave before Draco could.And Harry. Fuck, it all comes down to him, doesn't it?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zxrycyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxrycyan/gifts).



“Fuck,” Draco mutters under his breath, fingers gripping his wand tighter. “ _Fuck_.”

 

“You don’t have to repeat it for emphasis, you daft idiot,” Blaise tells him, and risks a glance over the upturned table. Something small and dark shoots past his face, barely grazing him, and Draco pulls him down before Blaise accidentally kills himself. Of all the people to accidentally kill themselves, Draco has never expected it to be _Blaise_.

 

There’s a bleeding cut on the side of his face when Blaise turns to him, and Draco wants to slap him.

 

“Oh yeah?” He snarls, mind racing with spells. He can’t- fuck, he can’t use his spells, can he? Not when it’s bloody _Muggles_ that’re shooting that them. Merlin, he knew it was a bad idea letting Blaise run rampant in Italy. He’s like a disease. A disease that sticks and doesn’t leave. A sexually transmitted disease.

 

“You’re a STD,” Draco informs him, flinging his phone out - phone, _phone!_ By Merlin, Draco’s become a Muggle. An Honorary Muggle. - “A fucking walking STD that can’t keep it in his bloody pants. Are they too loose? Is that why you keep dropping them at the first woman who walks in your path?”

 

“Thanks, I think,” Blaise replies, pushing his hair out of his eyes and back. It plasters to his head and his fingers are shaking. Knowing Blaise, it’s shaking with adrenaline and excitement, not a healthy dose of fear or self-preservation. “And my pants are tight as balls, thank you. Hasn’t anyone ever told you my arse looks fantastic in them?”

 

Draco ignores him because that’s the only way he’ll remain partially sane in this whole ordeal, and he dials the only other number he’s got in there. It’s a new phone, just for this mission. That’s the only reason there’s only one number. It’s not like Draco doesn’t have _friends_ , not when this big lug of an STD is why he’s in a shootout. A one sided shootout. A shooting.

 

Blaise looks over and snorts when he sees Draco’s contact list, which makes Draco elbow him sharply in the gut and yell at him to reinforce the table.

 

It’s a miracle the table - wooden table, mind, because it’s an old fashioned bar with smoothed oak tables and they only serve whiskey because they’re dumb as doorknobs - hasn’t given up and broken into two from the onslaught of bullets. Draco’s shot a gun before, he knows how fucking powerful those small things are. Fucking deadly, and with a bigger kickback than the AK. Almost wrenched his shoulder off the first time he did it.

 

“Robert,” he snaps into the phone, and he’s gripping it so hard he thinks he hears the plastic crack. “Get your arse over here. Blaise’s gone and turned it all to shit, again. Because he can’t fucking keep it in his pants.”

 

The Muggles, bless their tiny, underdeveloped minds, are still shooting. They do not seem to be running out of bullets. The only thing Blaise can do right now is continuously reinforce the table and pray. Draco is not a Catholic and he doesn’t believe in any higher up being but he’s fully prepared to cross himself and prostrate on the ground to beg for the aid of Jesus Christ.

 

There’s muffled shooting over the phone and Draco groans, loud enough to be heard over the sound of metal lodging into wood and Blaise perks up. “Robert’s in a shootout too?” He asks, because Draco only ever gets this frustrated when they’re in a shootout. A Muggle shootout, and Draco’s all out of guns. Why is he out of guns?

 

“You left yours in the hotel,” Blaise offers, eyes gleaming. “Dumbass. If Pansy were here, this whole thing would have been over because she’d have shot all them to high heaven by now.”

 

“Shut your trap, if Pansy were here we wouldn’t even be in this situation because she’d force you to keep it in your pants,” Draco says. “I’m a weak man and you plied me with alcohol last night, you frightening sack of balls. I was _hungover and disoriented_. Why isn’t _your_ gun with you?”

 

“Tight pants,” Blaise reminds him. He stretches a little, and yeah the leather pulls tight over his crotch. Draco stares at it a bit because he’s a gay man with needs but Blaise doesn’t need his ego inflated any more than usual so Draco just kicks his foot out, hoping it’ll make contact where the sun dont shine.

 

The shouting in his ear startles him, even more then the screaming happening behind the table, and Draco focuses on the phone, ignoring the way Blaise tries to risk his life one more time by peeking over the table. “Robert!”

 

“Fucking hell!” Robert shouts in Draco’s ear and he winces, pulling away a little. “Who the fuck did Blaise piss off? The whole of Italy? People I don’t even know are trying to kill me! And I didn’t even piss anyone off at the casino last night, so fuck them.”

 

“Blaise thought it was a stunningly brilliant idea to fuck the daughter of the head of Infindo,” Draco says. “Fuck his way up, he said. This was meant to be a _stealth mission_. I repeat,” he says, voice going louder, and he wishes he could shoot fiery arrows of death out of his eyes as he stares at Blaise, who grins at him. “STEALTH MISSION. S-T-E-A-L-T-H. How, by Merlin’s saggy left ballsack, did you think that fucking the daughter would be a good idea to get to the father? The father, who has killed _many men_ for doing less to his daughter!”

 

“I gave her a wonderful life experience that she’ll never forget,” Blaise says. “She found true religion on that night. It’s just a shame her dad caught us in bed the next morning. I would have finished the business quickly, otherwise.”

 

“Fuck you!” Draco yells at him. “Robert, get in a car and just crash through the walls. The boneheads will run out of ammo soon and I know that I’m half their weight, alright? If they come over to try a fist fight, I’m breaking the law and Stunning their asses to Switzerland.”

 

“You think it’s so easy to grab a car anywhere?” Robert says, and there’s screaming in the background. “I have to - fuck - hotwire a - shit, shit, _fuck_ \- bloody car, no thanks to Blaise’s dick, and drive it to wherever the _fuck_ you guys are!”

 

“USE A BLOODY POINT-ME!” Draco screams. He’s practically vibrating with tension and the way Blaise’s eyes suddenly light up makes Draco want to punch the light of his mind. Just, knock him out and put him a coma. Make him flatline. Cut off his dick and make him repent.

 

Blaise reaches towards Draco’s crotch - and understandably, Draco shrieks and kicks out, fully prepared to engage in self-defence against this sexually crazed maniac, but Blaise knocks his flailing legs away and takes his wand.

 

He breaks off a table leg and transfigures it into a gun. A handheld pistol, the kind that Draco excels at. Not like they could have played to Blaise’s strengths, which are poison and chemicals. Admittedly, they could just fling poison at the thugs and hope they somehow ingest it and start convulsing immediately.

 

Draco’s stopped talking and is staring at Blaise in shock. It didn’t- it didn’t occur to him to fucking _transfigure_ a weapon. Fuck. The Muggles must be getting to him. He isn’t capable of thinking like a wizard anymore. His father would vomit.

 

Blaise transfigures bullets as well - Draco’s mind is officially offline because he isn’t processing how Blaise is suddenly so proficient at transfiguration when he knows he flunked out of McGonagall’s class, or maybe Blaise just did it to spite Pansy who said he was surprisingly apt at it - and loads the gun, passing it to Draco.

 

Draco silently passes his phone over to Blaise and stands, shooting like crazy. Blaise, a good friend, albeit a walking STD, throws up a convenient shield to ensure that all bullets aimed at him ricochet off some invisible shield. The Muggles probably think he’s wearing a bulletproof Kevlar vest or some shit. Which, he is. But a shield doesn’t hurt.

 

They aren’t allowed to deal any _unnecessary_ damage, which is a huge fucking pity because Draco would love to lodge a bullet and just off all of these thugs, who are terribly unnecessary in this world, so Draco settles for incapacitating all of them.

 

“If I killed them-” He starts, but Blaise cuts him off with a loud laugh, shoulders shaking with the force.

 

“Harry would kill you,” Blaise tells him, eyebrow raised as he leans against the table for support. “He would gut you, string you up by your entrails, and hang you in the office as a warning for all others.”

 

Draco tilts his head and shudders a bit. Yeah, yeah he can see Harry doing that to him. So he doesn’t. He restrains himself, barely, and settles for destroying Blaise’s ass in the shooting range later. And maybe on the mat, because Draco prides himself on being a better fighter than Blaise. A fighter with no morals and who _cheats regularly_. It’s absolutely brilliant. Cheap shots always get Blaise on his knees and on the ground in record breaking time, because he needs to protect his bits in order to do his job as a honey trap.

 

The thugs are all on the floor and sluggishly bleeding out because Draco’s kind and puts a stasis spell on them so they can slowly bleed to death and if the mafia doctor doesn’t come fast enough, well, Draco didn’t _kill_ them. He kept them alive. And hurting. But Harry doesn’t need to know that.

 

Draco and Blaise are walking around and flipping bodies over, stealing their wallets and going through their phones when a car crashes through the front of the bar, glass shards flying everywhere and lodging themselves in the wall like makeshift shuriken. The car’s purple and flashy, and if Draco and Blaise were still cowering under the table trying to figure out a way to escape, it would have been a fantastic getaway. Heroic and dashing and probably enough to get Blaise’s pants to drop.

 

But as it is, the fight’s over, Draco’s got money in his pockets and a few credit cards to splurge with - with the corresponding number gleaned from their minds because Draco’s never admitted to having any morals whatsoever - and he’s only a little bruised up.

 

Blaise’s shirt is torn to tatters because the little lady of Infindo has a fucking huge set of claws on her - and his back looks like a beast just mauled him, but Blaise looks smug as _fuck_ so whatever, Draco doesn’t care, he isn’t going to recommend Blaise go see a medic at all - and he has a brilliant shiner on his face. His right eye, all purpled and bruising, half closed, and Draco preens with pride at having put that one there, right after Blaise got up and said, “Well, that wasn’t too bad.”

 

The window slides down and Robert sticks his head out like a chicken waiting to be gutted and he looks upset. “Fight’s over?”

 

“You don’t get to fight,” Draco confirms, brushing past a limping Blaise - the girl’s kinky, who knew - and entering the car. “C’mon, quickly, before more thugs come after us. Is the man dead yet, by the way? Or do we have to do a whole replan of the thing?”

 

“He’s dead,” Robert says as Blaise enters the car. “I have to do everything around here by myself, don’t I?”

 

“Fuck you, Robert,” Draco sneers. “You’re just here because Pansy’s finally decided to claim all her holiday leave and abscond to Hawaii to get the tan she always wished she had and fuck a hundred hot men.”

 

“Yeah well, I saved your sorry fucking asses,” Robert shoots back. “How would you have left when the Anti-Apparating wards are still up, huh? Walked around looking like extras out of an action movie? Maybe in New York you’d still pass, but in Italy?”

 

“ _I_ look like I just had hot sex, which would _definitely_ pass in Italy,” Blaise says smugly. “Draco can be the guy I fought with over the girl but decided to take back to fuck instead. They’d definitely believe that.”

 

“I don’t want to touch your dick,” Draco says, and Blaise leans over, batting his eyelashes.

 

“Draco darling,” he murmurs, gesturing at his body. “You don’t want this hot piece of ass?”

 

“A chicken wing looks more appealing than you,” Draco replies, ever so loyal to his self-made law of not tapping that, no matter how Blaise puts himself out there because Blaise is, admittedly, a great fuck. And Draco, having no other alternate fucks, will keep going back. That’s demeaning, because Blaise would let it happen just for the fun of it, and Draco prefers it when his partners are wholly aware that _Draco’s_ in charge of the relationship.

 

Robert scoffs and makes a sharp turn, forcing Draco and Blaise to go crashing into the car door. They didn’t wear seatbelts, and when Draco surfaces out of the tangle of limbs to glance at the intersection, the turn didn’t have to be that sharp. It could have been a slow turn, like sweet honey syrup falling over melted butter and pancakes. By Merlin, he’s fucking starved.

 

“Americans,” he mutters scathingly to Blaise, who hums in agreement, fully intent on remaining where he is with his head in Draco’s lap, legs flung over the car seat. “Can’t bloody drive.”

 

“But they can fuck,” Blaise says, and winks at Robert in the mirror.

 

Robert pretends to gag, and he immediately rises a few pegs in Draco’s mind.

 

-=-

 

Draco, because Draco is whipped, video calls Pansy the moment he gets back to the hotel. And yeah, he’s whipped, but also because he wants to bitch to Pansy about Blaise and how he thinks with the head that isn’t on his shoulders.

 

He even drags Blaise over and shows the shiner off to Pansy, who laughs brightly and takes a sip of her cocktail. Pansy looks happy in Hawaii, but that’s probably because she’s been fucking lots of men. Which frankly, is great, but Draco would have liked if he could have joined her because he’s currently going through a freezing period of abstinence.

 

It’s not even intentional abstinence. He tried going to a gay bar and clubbing, but the moment he found someone he’d like to get down and dirty with, his phone rings - again, with the fucking phones. His phone rings and it’s another job that pays so well Draco can probably swim in dollar notes by now.

 

“At least it’s over,” Blaise says, stretching in the background and Draco knows he’s probably fully naked because Pansy’s eyes are glazed over and she isn’t looking at Draco. He doesn’t even need to look to lob a pillow at Blaise’s head.

 

“Pansy,” he demands, snapping his fingers in the webcam. “Pay attention.”

 

“To what?” She says, and gestures for him to move so she can get a better view of Blaise. “You and your complaints over how you can’t get laid?” She snaps her fingers at him as well and Draco, sighing deeply like he’s been terribly affronted, shifts until he only occupies a small bit of the screen and majority of it is Blaise wandering around bare arsed.

 

“It’s Italy,” Blaise offers, and bends over to pick something up. Both Draco and Pansy whistle at this, because Pansy is a red blooded femme fatale and Draco is gay and weak. That is a fantastic arse, even if it belongs to someone crazy like Blaise. “You’ll get laid. Somehow or another.”

 

“For some reason, I can never find the time,” Draco says pointedly. “Because while someone else frolicks about the streets and in and out of bedsheets, I actually have to stay in and do intel. And when intel’s over, I have to listen to Harry drone on about the briefing.”

 

Blaise shoots him a brief smile and Draco bares his teeth, eyes purposefully glancing down and back up to link eyes with Blaise before forcefully biting air. Blaise, whose self preservation only relates to his dick, shudders.

 

“You can’t blame him, if I were stuck back home without anything to do, I’d be a right bastard to everyone,” Pansy shrugs. “Do try to be understanding, Draco, although we all know Harry’s mind’s a little weird. And it’s not like he’s getting laid anyways, not with his leg in a cast. So the two of you now have something to bond over.”

 

“What, I call him up and go, ‘Harry, I heard you’re not getting any recently? Well what a coincidence, I too am blue-balled. Whatever shall we do?’ That’s stupid. He’d break the phone in half.” Draco snorts, and tosses another pillow to Blaise. “Come on, put some bloody clothes on. You’re not going to get any sex anytime soon in this room. At least act a little bit proper.”

 

“I’m all out of clothes,” Blaise says breezily. “She tore up lots of my clothes.” He nods to Pansy, who offers a smile that reeks of killer intent. Even so far from Hawaii, Draco can feel it leaking through the computer. “Even shot through some of them with a gun.”

 

“Target practice?” Draco asks, and nods approvingly. “Aim for the crotch, Pansy dear. Blaise needs to know some fear.”

 

“His clothes smelt of other women’s perfume, and I couldn’t let that pass. He can’t be a honey trap with clothes smelling of other women. We can tell. It’s a woman's intuition thing,” Pansy says, picking at a nail. She takes a few more sips of her cocktail and someone passes by in the background, some bloke with a terribly fit body and a grin that temporarily blinds Draco. Pansy, the lucky bitch, wolf whistles at him and calls out a room number that probably belongs to her. The guy winks, which in buff male speak means _yeah I’ll drop by_.

 

“Fuck you,” Draco groans, letting his head fall to the keyboard with a thump. “And fuck Robert too, he sucks. Can’t drive for nuts. Can’t do anything. Come back quickly, he’s messing up the hierarchy.”

 

“Oh?” Pansy looks interested. “Does he want to usurp you, then? Affirm himself as number one in the group? I always do like a man in charge.”

 

Blaise wanders out of the toilet, _still_ stark naked, and Draco grabs his gun. Blaise’s hands immediately go up, a charming smile on his face and he backs into the toilet, winking at Draco.

 

“Don’t be daft, Pansy,” Draco mutters, tossing a dirty look at the toilet. “You love being in charge. It’s a miracle you let Harry order you around. I, on the other hand, assert-”

 

“You’re only in charge because Blaise and I don’t care to watch you go into a power hungry tantrum, darling.”

 

Draco knows this is the truth, and because he is not stupid, he doesn’t argue, just huffs and takes his gun apart. He can talk about a lot of other things with Pansy, like his mom, or her mom, or how their dads are still in jail even though it’s been eight years, but he flops back onto the bed and throws his arm across his eyes.

 

“Why the fuck did Infindo hire civilians to defend them when the leader’s a wizard?” He complains. “If we could have used magic, the whole thing would have been over faster.”

 

“Because he knows that you can’t break the law, while he can,” Pansy answers primly. “You _could_ , but that’d be a huge lot of paperwork and Harry coming for your ass, so you wouldn’t.”

 

“Harry needs to stop being so uptight,” Draco says. “We’re Slytherins, he’s a Gryff, why did Hermione _ever_ think we’d work well together?”

 

“Maybe because you two actually work well in a tight situation,” Blaise says, and exits the toilet fully clothed. Draco puts the gun away, but does the universal sign of _I’m watching you_. Blaise rolls his eyes and settles on the bed next to Draco, lounging like he can’t sit properly. He probably can’t. Put him on a chair and Blaise slouches, legs dropping far open, and that’s because he’s just that kind of person. “The UST helps.”

 

“UST!” Draco splutters. “What the fuck?”

 

Blaise just got fucked really hard by the heiress Squib of Infindo, and his mind was exploding with hormones during the shooting, so maybe his addled mind can be excused for coming up with these weird thoughts. But Pansy nods along, humming like she knows something Draco doesn’t, and Draco bristles at her.

 

“Oh come off it,” she says, laughter in her voice. “You think Harry’s fit as fuck, and you’d like to fuck him.”

 

“ _I’d_ fuck him,” Blaise adds unnecessarily, like his stamp of approval is important, proving that yes, Harry is in fact a fucking fit bloke.

 

“I do not,” Draco denies. It’s a good thing they aren’t sharing rooms with Robert - who specifically booked a room on a differently bloody floor, fucking _Americans_ \- because Robert, for some weird unknown reason, thinks Harry’s the best thing since sliced bread. He would probably try to take Draco’s head off for thinking that way about Harry. Not that he is. Not that he is, because he isn’t.

 

“I do _not_ ,” he repeats for emphasis, brows furrowing. There’s a knowing, accusatory silence that reigns in the room and Draco blinks.

 

“Fuck,” he says, and presses the bottom of his palms to his eyes. “ _Fuck_.”

 

“Repeating it won’t make it any better,” Pansy says authoritatively while Blaise pats him on the back, even rubs his back a little like Draco’s about to puke and needs the appropriate comfort. “You need to own this stupid little affectionate crush of yours, and then it’ll make you stronger.”

 

“Or,” Blaise says, ever the voice of reason, “You could fuck it out of yourself. Find a bloke who can give you such amazing, mind-blowing sex that you forget all about Harry.”

 

“Impossible,” Pansy overrules. “Draco sees Harry everyday because of our work, he’s never going to forget about this. There’s even the distinct possibility that he’ll see Harry later for the debrief and flush. If he flushes, Blaise, you need to slap him immediately so it’ll seem the flush is because of the blood rushing to his cheeks because of your slap.”

 

“I’ll slap myself,” Draco snaps and stares distractedly at Blaise’s raised hand, the owner looking perfectly fine to do a trial run right this instant. “I should have just joined you in Hawaii, Merlin’s sake.”

 

“You should have,” Pansy says mournfully. “But Harry’s already out of commission so the two of us couldn’t go together. And if you go, there’s no certainty you’ll come back, so we can’t let you go alone. Seeing all these almost naked guys does make your mind a bit hazy. Almost doesn’t make me want to leave.”

 

“If we have to deal with Robert longer than necessary because you can’t find it in you to leave your sex-filled holiday behind, I’m going to kill you,” Draco deadpans. “Kill you slowly.”

 

“Well, it’s lucky that I’m coming back today, isn’t it?” She says, and the connection cuts.

 

Draco stares at the screen in abject horror, before turning to look at Blaise, who’s also looking a bit shaken. “Today?” He repeats, running a hand through his hair. “But she just offered to have sex with that bloke in the background!”

 

“She can make a man fall in seconds,” Blaise says, but he looks horrified. “Today-our-time, or today-her-time?”

 

Draco chances a glance at the clock and it reads four in the afternoon. Blaise swallows tightly and looks to Draco like he holds all the answers, which he would very much like to, but in this case does not. “How fast is her plane?”

 

“Fast,” Draco replies grimly.

 

They explode into action.

 

-=-

 

The airport is packed with people. Everyone’s squeezing around each other, and Draco overhears that some big star is coming for an event. Some Muggle movie star who charms people with a smile and a wink. Can cry on command. _Draco_ can cry on command.

 

He has to physically drag Blaise away from the crowd of people gathered around that terminal because Blaise is very confident in his ability to add that Muggle movie star to his ever growing, probably novel-length list of _People I Have Fucked or Been Fucked By_.

 

Pansy’s a dear that Draco will have in his heart forever, but she’s also a ferocious bitch who loves being pampered. If they’re not there to welcome her at the airport, she’ll take her heels and push it into his chest cavity to stab him in the heart in one go, or she’ll cut his jugular vein and leave him to bleed out somewhere dark and musty, like an alleyway, or Harry’s car. That thing is _horrendous_.

 

And Pansy, the crazy woman, loves flying. She thinks it’s simply adorable that the Muggles have found a way to take to the air, and the service on the flights aren’t shabby either. She only takes First Class, of course, because she’s rich and values comfort.

 

But in the end, Draco and Blaise are immaculately dressed in suits and ties - which garner lots of attention, since Blaise is Blaise and throwing sultry eyes to everyone of legal age and Draco knows he himself looks pretty damn good - and Pansy sweeps out in a full length silky dress that clings to her curves with a champagne glass in hand and her luggage in the other.

 

For fuck’s sake, she came from _Hawaii_.

 

It isn’t hard to come to the conclusion that all three of them are fucking, based on the way they’re all affectionate with each other, and Pansy tucks her arms in the crook of Draco’s elbow and Blaise’s, one on each side, and they sweep off like _they’re_ the movie stars. This makes the petty side of Draco pleased as punch, and sometimes paparazzi even snaps a few photos of them, thinking they’re hot stuff.

 

They _are_ hot stuff, but well, not stuff that the Muggle population would know.

 

Fortunately, Pansy values comfort over making great, grandeur entrances, and they eventually split to enter the toilet and apparate back to the house they share with Harry. Harry’s been living like a slob, using the excuse that he can’t do anything with his broken leg - which, fucking _bull_ , Draco’s seen Harry take down five men with a broken arm, shattered knee and a _concussion_ \- to just laze around on the couch and watch Muggle television.

 

All these people in a box - he actually knows what a television is, he just likes calling it that to rile Harry up - and no good entertainment. It’s shameful, is what it is.

 

Draco has to duck to avoid Harry throwing popcorn at his head, a sly grin on his face as he aims and Draco fumes, because Pansy never has to deal with any of this shit. Harry is perfectly respectable to her, even if they do snark at each other a bit, but Harry doesn’t attack her the way he attacks Draco.

 

Does he even know how much this suit cost? Fuck, Harry’s drowning in even more money than Draco is, he probably doesn’t care.

 

Blaise strips shamelessly in the hallway and throws on a shirt and sweatpants, the agreed upon relaxation attire - Pansy forced them to agree to it, or Blaise would go around naked and Draco would shoot him, or Harry would wear something that made all three Slytherins cry from the fashion outrage. Harry once wore slippers with socks. - and settles on the couch next to Harry.

 

“The Kardashians?” Blaise asks, and Harry hums in agreement, passing over the popcorn. “What new drama is there?”

 

“Reruns,” Harry responds. “Kim just lost her earrings in the ocean. Super pissed. About to kill her boyfriend.”

 

Draco gives Harry a dark, dark look, to which Harry grins, and stalks off to change. No use wasting his time arguing with Harry Fucking Potter, who coincidentally, is the leader of their rag tag group of many forms of murder. Draco doesn’t understand why he signed up to be a spy. Was it the promise of hot sex with numerous victims?

 

“Blaise and I decided to join,” Pansy reminds him, appearing at his door. She cocks an eyebrow at him, and he rolls his eyes. He always has this weird mental breakdown whenever he apparates back after a mission and sees Harry. _Why_ , Draco thinks. _Why the fuck did I choose this career_.

 

It’s happened enough times that all Pansy has to do is repeat the same old story. “You were a prissy little lonely boy, so you joined with us,” she leans against the door, crosses her arms and smirks. “You didn’t know that we would be dealing with _Muggles_ as well.”

 

“Damn,” Draco mutters under his breath. He should have known Hermione would be all buddy-buddy with Muggle spies and work as some sort of liaison. He should have _known_.

 

“Wanna go get drunk and talk about your feelings?” Pansy asks, weirdly perceptive. Draco looks at the pants he picked out, looks at her, and tosses the pair of pants back into the closet.

 

“I’m taking your clothes to go clubbing,” Draco yells as he enters Blaise’s room, and goes through the strangely diminished amount of tight clothing in his closet. Pansy shoves him to the side and picks a set out, looming over Draco as she holds the clothes next to him, like she's measuring him up against the clothes and finds him lacking. He’s lost to a bunch of clothes.

 

“We’ll get you some sex tonight,” Pansy says, full of determination, and she leaves him to change in Blaise’s room as she goes out to convince Blaise to come with. Not that Blaise needs much convincing, he’s always eager for clubs.

 

Harry catches Draco in a vulnerable position - shirt off, pants unzipped, about to take both his briefs and pants off, which is absolutely horrifying because he does _not_ want to flash Harry - and he grins lazily at Draco. It makes Draco want to punch him in the face, watch his lip bleed and _then_ kiss the blood out of his mouth. Weird.

 

“Haven’t been laid in a while?” Harry asks, and he looks smug. There’s an itch beneath Draco’s skin. It feels like he’s suddenly hyperaware, especially since he’s now conscious of the fact that he has a _thing_ for Harry Potter.

 

“Your leg suddenly better?” Draco replies, and nods at Harry’s leg. “Should have known you were lying, you bastard. Wanted to see Blaise and me fool around with Robert, did you?”

 

“It was enlightening to watch how you cocked up without me,” Harry says, eyes bright. He takes a step forward, and Draco unconsciously takes a step back. Which, fuck, he’s supposed to maintain dominance by not backing away. Step one of asserting dominance, failed.

 

“You’re a right bastard who can’t shoot straight,” Draco replies, and takes multiple steps forward, getting all up in Harry’s private space. He’s a little bit taller, so he uses it to his advantage and smirks down at Harry. “I heard _you’ve_ been getting blue-balled too.”

 

Thankfully- _thankfully_ , because Draco isn’t sure how much longer he can stand in front of Harry without a shirt and pants unzipped before he pops a boner, Harry flushes and his eyes slide to the side. Just a tinge of red at his cheeks, but it’s a surrender. It’s enough. Draco has successfully asserted dominance, absolutely _brilliant_.

 

“You know,” Harry says carefully, looking back at Draco. Those green eyes are a little distracting. Draco has to exert more effort to pay attention to what Harry is saying. “When you called Pansy, it wasn’t a secure channel.”

 

“Fuck that,” Draco says immediately, because he’s an idiot, but he isn’t an _idiot_. “It’s secure, don’t bluff.”

 

“From outsiders, maybe,” Harry agrees, and he looks a tad eager. For what, Draco isn’t sure. “But not from me.”

 

And _oh_ , Draco’s mind makes the connection. He wants to- strangle Pansy, maybe. Because Blaise may not have known what he was doing, and was an accessory to the crime, but Pansy, the fucking _bitch_ , sure as fuck knew what she was doing.

 

He swallows, and raises an eyebrow, making sure he still radiates confidence and has that air of smugness that has made Harry punch him on more than one occasion. “So?” Draco challenges, and he’s become very observant after having the Dark Lord live in his house so he catches the way Harry’s eyes dart down his body.

 

He tucks his thumbs into his pockets, forcing the pants down even _lower_ from where they’re already treacherously hanging from his hips, and Harry looks like he wants to shoot someone. Maybe Draco, for teasing him.

 

Draco is a weak, weak person and licks his lips.

 

Harry looks up, his gaze lingering on Draco’s lips and yup, maybe Draco won’t have to strangle Pansy after all. He won’t even have to thrash Blaise’s ass on the mat. He’s feeling extremely generous.

 

“Why Harry,” he murmurs, and leans in. Harry, for his credit, does not shake. He does, however, blink very often, like he isn’t sure what he’s seeing. “Are you saying you like me?”

 

“You’re full of shit.” Harry laughs and tilts his head. Draco feels like caging him in. “I’m pretty sure you were the one who said you liked me. Caught you in the act and everything.”

 

“In not so many words, maybe,” Draco acknowledges. And maybe Slytherins aren’t straightforward, not like Gryffs are, but they know how to get a point across. They know how to be straightforward when the time calls for it. At the very least, Draco isn’t carrying a gun with him right now so Harry can’t pull the Merlin awful line of ‘is that gun in your pants or are you happy to see me’, because Draco’s _very happy_ to see him at the moment.

 

“Wanna stay in tonight?” He offers, eyes glinting, and Harry- Harry, who can shoot a man from miles away because his aim is fucking fantastic, grins ferally up at him.

 

“If you make me happy, I might even consider charming Hermione to give you some better gear,” Harry says, looping his arm around Draco’s neck and dragging him down for a brutal kiss.

 

Draco’s pretty sure he bites Harry’s lips because he can taste the tang of blood, but Harry growls and pulls him closer, like he can taste his own blood and _likes it_. Draco probably should send Pansy a thank you basket with champagne and spa offers, and maybe just throw a bunch of flavoured condoms at Blaise. Fuck, Harry tastes _brilliant_. Draco wants to take him apart, right now.

 

There’s a loud groan behind them. “Not in my room guys,” Blaise says, and they break apart. Draco licks his lips and yeah, there’s blood. Harry’s blood, probably. Harry looks like he’s already being torn apart at the seams with his bloody lips and wild eyes.

 

“Come on, you can have hot wild sex in your room.” Blaise herds them to Draco’s room and shuts the door for them, complaining loudly to Pansy who cackles like a witch.

 

“Kissing you feels like I’m fighting you,” Draco observes, but he’s already pulling at Harry’s clothes to get him naked in the least possible time. “Like I’m punching you with my mouth, you glorious fuck.”

 

“Kinky,” Harry observes, and Draco bites out a mark on his neck as he tips Harry down onto the bed.

**Author's Note:**

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